


Quality Street

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Strong PG13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:12:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft sighed, turned around to face his little brother, who had not yet ceased being pure pestilence since the day he had been born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quality Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dioscureantwins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Clothes Make the Man](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/149164) by Dioscureantwins. 



> A Remix written especially for dioscureantwins!

_SIXTEEN_

 

Mycroft held his breath, gritted his teeth and came silently, pushing in a few more times to draw out the pleasure. Panting, he managed to lift himself out and up and over to the side to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. This was better, all the tension drained for a few blessed minutes.

"Let's get married."

"No," said Mycroft, barely able to keep from rolling his eyes.

"Why not? Let's make a date of it," Imogen said eagerly, rolling up onto her elbow to blink down at him eagerly, the ends of her hair tickling his bare shoulder. "If neither of us is married by thirty—five, we'll marry one another. That way we can have our fun and still fulfill family obligations."

Mycroft dropped his arm over the side of the bed and felt for the packet of cigarettes he had earlier dropped on the floor. Trousers, belt, a shoe. No cigarettes. Oh, just as well. He had already decided it was going to be his last pack , so there was no true hardship in foregoing the post-coital relaxant. The added benefit of the smoke driving Imogen from his room was neither here nor there.

"Oh come on, Mycroft, you know it only makes sense. I won't keep asking you forever."

He sat up, shaking off her hand on his hip. Ah, there were his pants. He stepped into them, and then his trousers, cast a glance back at Imogen. Her honey gold hair was spread very artlessly on his dark green bed linens, the paleness of her skin equally striking, in a Waterhouse kind of way. While she was partially covered by the sheet, he thought there was little chance of her catching pneumonia as Waterhouse's muse did, and dying very prettily shortly thereafter. _He_ might die of inanity and boredom before then. _And_ there was still the rest of the party to attend; it had only just gone three in the afternoon.

"Fine, be that way," she said, hurling herself out of the bed with a huff of frustration. "I'll go and marry Geoffrey, see how you like that."

Mycroft grimaced, put his shirt on. "For god's sakes, stop being so dramatic. That man is fifteen years older than you, for a start."

"You won't care then, will you?"

"Imogen. You'll do no such thing and you know it. What's more, your Gerard and Claire would have a fit, disown you at the very least. You can kiss those summer holidays to Morocco and Greece goodbye. If that's not enough for you, you should know I would never marry you."

She pouted. "But you promised! Don't you remember? When we were at Auntie Elizabeth's when we were five? And Uncle George laughed and said we were perfect for one another? And Auntie Elizabeth said she would give us an estate, and I could wear one of the tiaras?"

Of for - Mycroft buttoned up his shirt, unable to look her in the face. If she really believed their relatives believed what they had 'promised' when they were children, she was even more stupid than he had originally realized. Finally, he merely gazed at her, lips pursed.

"Oh! You - you _bastard!_ " she shrieked, picking up the rest of her clothing and storming into the hallway clad only in her pants, leaving the door open behind herself. Brave, risking meeting anyone from the party, Gerard and Claire in particular. Especially as it would be obvious what they had been doing, not that Imogen ever had any thoughts on the matter, no, it would all be Mycroft's fault that their daughter had been ruined, _ruined_. But that's what he got for sleeping with flighty women. On the plus side, he didn't have to worry over much about liking any of them. Her idea was patently ridiculous. Marry her at thirty-five? Hardly.

Mycroft put on his shoes (no need to put on socks, he'd never taken them off in the first place), checked his reflection in the standing mirror next to the armoire. Yes, he still looked acceptable. Hair mussed, of course, and a spot on his neck darkening to a bruise. Well, she hadn't used her teeth, there was that. 

"Did you have sex with her?"

Mycroft briefly closed his eyes at the high-pitched voice piping up behind him. 

"You did, I can tell! It's the odor, you see. I wasn't listening at the door."

"Sherlock, it's not polite to overhear what people are saying in private."

" _You_ do it."

Mycroft sighed, turned around to face his little brother, who had not yet ceased being pure pestilence since the day he had been born. Who was also dressed as a 1940s schoolboy. He sincerely hoped Sherlock would soon get over his fascination with historical dress. At least the family was no longer subjected to long wigs liberally daubed in talcum powder. The smell alone, never mind the unbearable sneezing, had driven him from the house most days. "That's not the point."

"What is the point, then?" 

Mycroft finished combing his hair, checked everything else was tucked away and that he looked presentable before heading out of the room. Sherlock tagged along beside him, peppering him with more questions, none of which Mycroft had any intention of answering. Sherlock was brilliant - thought not as intelligent as himself, of course - but he was still a child. Even so, Mycroft stopped in shock once he understood that Sherlock was genuinely curious and not just asking to drive his elder brother insane. "Sherlock," he said, clasping his hands behind his back in an attempt to not strangle the boy. "That is something you will find out when you're older, and are seeing someone of your own accord."

"But I want to know now!"

"You're too little," he added with vicious pleasure, because Sherlock was short for his age. The long pants, horizontally striped and knitted vest, white shirt and blood red tie did not help improve his height, nor did his plain black shoes.

"Am not!"

"You really are," said Mycroft, peering out the window at the party on the lawn below. Imogen was no where in sight. "My best advice is to run around a lot in order to perspire, and then lick your arm pit. The sensation is not dissimilar."

Sherlock made a face. 

"Exactly," Mycroft started down the stairs, stood to one side to allow Beckwith and Smithson to pass with the newly cleaned chandelier. The smell of the polish was acrid and mildly sweet at the same time. Uncle Alexander would have a fit if he were to see them using the main stairs, but he was playing bowls, wasn't he, and Mycroft had no intention of letting him know what shenanigans the household staff got up to. Besides, now they would owe him favours. "Stop bothering me. Go play with Cousin Edmund, I just saw him torturing the koi in the sunken garden."

 

_TWENTY_

Laurie took one more drag then dropped the butt on the pavement, ground it out with the toe of his shoe. He looked at Mycroft nervously. "It's not that I think he would, but he's threatened a lot, and I can't live like the common people, I just can't!"

"You'll be fine," drawled Mycroft, looking around the corner to see if Julian and Philip had arrived. "You don't have to tell him anything you don't want to."

"But he'll find out!" cried Laurie, running both hands through his dark hair.

"You're being hysterical," snapped Mycroft. At Laurie's stricken expression, he ameliorated his comment. Laurie was too useful to be discarded at whim. "You'll have to be very discrete, of course. All things are possible if you don't shout from the rooftops."

Laurie fidgeted with the change in his trouser pockets, the faint jingling annoying Mycroft further. The problem with Laurie was that he was flighty, never able to stick to something once he had wind that things could be different, either good or bad. Mycroft almost felt bad for using him as he did - Laurie _did_ have his good points; a mouth made for sucking cock, for example, and those large, dark eyes highlighted by long dark lashes. A plump arse always suitable for plundering, and best of all, his father's friends, most of whom worked in Government in one capacity or another. 

Hugh, in particular. 

Mycroft felt his cheeks heat. Yes, Hugh Selkirk. Who had made Mycroft his personal mission for all things...useful. In retrospect, Mycroft couldn't believe he had been so foolish. Of course, he had been flattered by Hugh's attentions, who wouldn't? Yet that didn't keep him from feeling shame and guilt over what had happened.

"Mycroft."

"Hmm?" He looked up as a few fat drops of rain hit darkened the pavement. It had been an overcast day, and as the afternoon shortened there was going to be a blinder of a storm. 

"Mycroft," Laurie repeated, stepping in front of him and passing a hand over the front of his trousers. "Can I? Please?"

Mycroft glanced at him, saw the pleading in his eyes, the quick swipe of his tongue, leaving a shining trail along his bottom lip. Dangerous, to do it here in public where anyone could see. A thrill ran through him and he had to look away in case Laurie noticed. "All right."

He fell back against the wall, damp though it was, and watched Laurie drop to his knees. Glancing at either end of the lane, he saw there were no pedestrians or curious onlookers. Happily none of the new CCTV cameras covered this precise spot. Mycroft knew that because Hugh had told him. Hugh liked showing the kind of power he had. 

Laurie undid the button, the zip, nuzzled his entire face in Mycroft's crotch. They really did not have time for this. Besides, it wasn't going to take long, Mycroft had been all set to go the instant the wall had met his back. "Get on with it," he said, biting off a moan as Laurie swooped in.

The thing about Laurie was that for all his professed fear of being labeled a homosexual, he was really very good at being one. Mycroft had known within thirty seconds of being introduced to him, and had been gratified in his deduction an hour later in the Park Street toilets. Now, fear made Laurie work all the harder, working on Mycroft's prick like as a dog with a…bone. Mycroft gave a breathless chuckle at his own poor pun, took Laurie's head in both hands so he could thrust. 

He wasn't gentle. 

It didn't take long for his orgasm to hit as he shoved deep, maybe even hitting the back of Laurie's throat. Mycroft curled over him, jerking hard as he jetted semen into Laurie's mouth. When he was done he leaned back against the wall, doing up his trousers with trembling fingers and detesting how clammy he was inside his clothing. Laurie was still on his knees when Mycroft heard Julian's guffaw. Pushing off the wall, he turned towards the footpath, took a moment to straighten his jacket and look refined instead of a man who'd just gotten a blowjob in a filthy lane.

"Mycroft!" called Phillip, waving in addition to shouting Mycroft's name, because he was an idiot.

"Did you bring the phone?" asked Mycroft, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Of course," said Phillip, reaching into the bag slung crosswise against his body. "Whatever you're doing with it, don't lose it, my dad'll go spare."

"Mm," murmured Mycroft, examining the phone closely. It should work, with the information he had gotten from Hugh's technicians.

"Laurie, Jesus Christ, what the fuck you been up to, mate?" 

Julian's strong Australian accent carried over Mycroft's shoulder, and he decided to wait and look at the phone in the privacy of his room. It wouldn't do if Laurie asked for his help in front of Philip, no, it really wouldn't.

 

_INTERLUDE:_

He was in North Africa when the call came, diplomatic attache to Mr. Franks at the Embassy in Tripoli. Evangeline had motioned to him as he was on his way out to lunch. Despite the dangers Mycroft believed it was important for at least one member of staff to show their face in public. Though it was her office, she left him alone within it, closing the door carefully behind herself.

"Yes?"

"Mycroft, it's Daddy. I know it's not the done thing to do, but I thought you ought to know; Mummy and Sherlock were in a car accident yesterday."

"And?" Mycrfoft went hot and cold at the same time. The backs of his hands prickled, his grip in the handset slipping as the palms of his hands went sweaty. His father sounded exhausted, though that could equally have been the poor connection. "Father? And?"

"Oh, they're both in hospital. You're mother has a broken pelvis and two badly bruised ribs. She bumped her head on the steering wheel and the car is absolutely totalled."

"And Sherlock?"

"Getting checked out now."

"Tell me everything," demanded Mycroft, pulling out Evangeline's chair from her desk to sit before he fell. He thought he might actually be sick, stomach roiling, sweating like a madman. "Don't skimp on the details."

Relief flavored his father's voice, joy at Sherlock being released, gratefulness that his wife was recovering in hospital. "Your mother was driving, with Sherlock in the back seat. They were coming home from the theatre, I can't remember the play but I hadn't wanted to see it, so I stayed home to work on the _Mary Rose_. I'd just gotten the mains'l set -"

"Father," Mycroft interrupted, straining not to shout down the line. "Just the pertinent details. Please."

"Right, of course. They left the theatre shortly before eleven, and the night was a stormy. Lots of fog, one lane, that sort of thing. There was a truck in the layby - not a small one, but a proper eighteen wheeler. It didn't have its running lights on, nor did it have a load, and your mother drove straight into it. If Sherlock had been sitting up, you wouldn't have a little brother today. "

Mycroft could picture it, the rear corner of the truck, jutting out into the roadway like a horizontal blade, cutting through the windscreen and into the passenger chair, into the back seat. He could see Mummy thrown against the dashboard, the use of her seatbelt keeping her from going through the broken windscreen, but breaking bones in the process. "How's her neck?"

"sprained, as one could expect. She'll be wearing a neck collar for a few weeks. Now, Mycroft, here's the thing. Mummy doesn't want you to come home."

"My job is not more important than my mother."

"No, no, you know what I mean. She's perfectly fine in hospital, you needn't come. Indeed, she insisted upon it."

"Has she been reading up on the situation here? It's not an impossibi - "

"She said no!"

Father only ever raised his voice when he was very upset, and to hear him shouting down the phone reminded him of all the times Father had disciplined him when he was little. "All right, I won't come. But I want to talk to Sherlock as soon as he's available."

"Absolutely. Should I call this number?"

"Yes, that should be fine. I'll be here after luncheon,"

 

_TWENTY-FOUR_

Mycroft got out of the car and collected his bags. Dry cleaning to be hung, an overnight bag, his laptop, the bag with one of Mummy's birthday gifts, the others to be delivered on the morrow. With luck the weather would hold and they could take seats courtside without needing rain gear.

"Mycroft!"

He sighed, closed his eyes briefly. If only there were a way to keep Sherlock's mouth shut for the next few days! Actually, come to think of it, he could think of more than few ways to keep Sherlock's mouth shut, none of them legal.

"Mycroft, did you get it?"

Without turning around to acknowledge his brother's presence, he motioned towards the boot with his elbow. Where was the bloody box of chocolates? 

Arms full, hands laden with bag handles, Mycroft managed to shut the car door by bumping it with his hip, turning to face Sherlock at the last minute. He froze.

At some point between the last time he had seen Sherlock and the present moment, his little brother had become _beautiful_. 

Sherlock was simply dressed in a white button-down shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled half way up his forearms, and a pair of trousers the color of charcoal. Despite the white gravel of the drive, Sherlock was barefoot, as if he was striding on the softest of spring grass. His skin was clear though he had the beginnings of a beard, his hair artfully tousled, his expression eager, his eyes still mirror odd. Mycroft inhaled suddenly and hard, as if he had forgotten to breathe.

"Did you get it?"

"Yes...it's in the boot," said Mycroft, watching Sherlock send him a quick smile - unbelievable - before rounding the car to get the supplies Mycroft had gotten for him.

"Does Mummy know?" asked Sherlock, walking confidently beside Mycroft.

"I'm sure she suspects, but I gave no indication that I would be available," and what lucky happenstance that you are here, Mycroft didn't say. He was, quite frankly, staggered by Sherlock's _height_. He hadn't thought he'd been so long from the house, but clearly he had been wrong. Sherlock had barely come up to his shoulder only a few months...no...good god, it had actually been close to three years since they had last been in each other's presence. 

Of course, his job with Diplomatic Services kept him hopping from country to country, yet nonetheless - two years! He would endeavour to change that situation as soon as possible. When had the last...oh yes. Yes, that _disastrous_ dinner party. That girl whom Sherlock had brought, the one with the obvious track marks. She had overdosed not long after, which was a relief in a way. Mummy had said Sherlock had taken it badly. Why? She had no idea. 

They were almost to the house when Sherlock said, "Stop thinking about her, Mycroft."

"You've no idea what I was thinking," said Mycroft, impatiently waiting for Sherlock go through the door first.

"She's long gone. Mummy abhorred her," Sherlock said, shouldering his way inside.

"We _all_ utterly abhorred her, Sherlock."

"Oh, that alliteration, you _must_ be peeved."

Frowning, Mycroft shook his head. It was never a good omen when Sherlock was in such a good mood. He brought the gifts to his suite upstairs, including the one Sherlock didn't know about, an original treatise on Alchemy in the original Arabic by Jabir ibn Hayyan. It had cost him a small fortune to procure while he was in the Levant. It was either an excellent forgery, or a priceless original. He was sure Sherlock would tell him which, depending on what experiments he ran on the paper.

Hiding them all carefully in the usual spaces, he tucked Sherlock's book in his briefcase. Chances were Sherlock would find it, which was exactly what Mycroft was counting on. Sherlock knew better, and would suffer the consequences if he unwrapped even the tiniest corner of paper. Mycroft sat on his bed, bounced a little. The mattress was new, one he had ordered and had delivered after last Christmas holiday that he had been home. It was…suitable. It didn't squeak against the bedframe, certainly, and the padded headboard he had installed would keep the knocking against the wall quieter. Granted, only his dressing room was next door, but still. No need for anyone to investigate unusual noises. Not that there would be any apart from his imaginings.

Overall he was pleased with how his suite appeared. He had completely revamped it from the childish leanings of his youth to what he felt more accurately described his temperment; silk wallpaper with a large design of violet and green orchids on a background of pale twilight highlighting the fireplace, British Racing Green on the other walls, white trim. His own framed sketches of the Capitoline Temple of Volubilis, the Theatre of Sabratha, the Forum at Jerash, and Heliopolis decorated the walls in manner most pleasing to his eye. There were three narrow bookcases framing the windows, a small mahogany writing desk that was absolutely delectable with its clean form, and a plush Turkish carpet on the floor. Yes, this was how he was, exactly, precisely. And if he didn't venture towards the locked steamer trunks in the corner, well, that was his business, wasn't it? 

With his things put away, Mycroft took a turn about the house, checking what was new, what needed refurbishing, what should be replaced. Mummy and Father might be convinced that the house was fine, but he knew better. There was always something to be done, and while of course money was not an issue, they would not live here forever and the time would come when he did. He felt it would be just him, Sherlock coming to visit every now and again just to irritate him. That's how things were, and would be for the foreseeable future. Which also reminded him that he had to speak to Sherlock. Again. This nonsense with experimentation of psychotropic material could not be allowed to continue.

Outside, the gardens were truly lovely this time of year. There was a property in London he was going to buy as soon as he was able, one that had small, walled grounds that through some quirk of fate, were not overlooked by the neighbors. He already had thoughts as to plants, and an basement extension. He would need an exercise room, a sauna, a pool, a safe room.

He was in the rose garden when Mummy appeared, thermos in one hand, two Aynsley teacups in gold and green in the other. The mild breeze shifted and the sweet scent of Oolong reached him. Mummy's favorite after all these years.

"Come fix your cup," she called, sitting on the nearest ironwork bench. "And tell me about your young lady."

Young lady? He frowned, casting his mind back to all the women with whom he kept company. By the time he realized there was sugar and lemon in his tea, he realized who she was talking about. "Miss Parkins works for me, nothing more."

"I've heard you are in her company a great deal."

Mycroft conceded the point with a nod. "Nonetheless, she is a work colleague, and nothing more."

Mummy looked at him and smiled. "Of course."

 

_INTERLUDE II:_

"Hallo."

Looking up from the flourless chocolate torte he was contemplating devouring, Mycroft was surprised to see Helena Ficquelmont gazing down at him. He stood with more haste than was ordinarily warranted, but she _was_ one of his oldest acquaintances, and he hadn't seen her in over ten years. "My dear, it's been too long," he said, before kissing the offered cheek. "May I get you something?"

"Thank you, no," she said, sitting down without so much as a 'by your leave'. "You're the only real surprise of the evening."

"Am I?" he asked mildly. "I do so like to be unusual."

She glanced around the room, clearly bemused. "Are you glad you don't have to fold your hand?"

Looking around the tent and the guests milling about and then back to her, he smiled. "I would never be forced into such a thing."

"Yes...never make a promise you aren't prepared to keep, wasn't that your motto?"

"Among the many."

Helena fiddled with her pink rose wrist corsage. "So tell me all about yourself. What you've been doing and all that, since last I saw you."

An unfair comment, perhaps. He had not been at his best, still raging at Hugh, half-drunk and throwing whatever he could get his hands on at whoever appeared in the open door. It had been Helena who had come to his aid, in fact. She had let him cry on her shoulder while she rubbed his back and tried to soothe his young self, broken hearted after Hugo had ditched him for a less intelligent model. When he looked back at that time, Mycroft felt sorrow for the young man he had been, completely and utterly unprepared for his first great love affair - or what he had thought was love, at the time. Hugh, of course, had simply been having a light affair. In his darker moments, Mycroft wondered if Hugh had been getting back at the Holmes family for the rumoured slights of previous generations. It wouldn't surprise him, Hugh was the kind of man who nurtured a grudge, even when it was against his own direct interests. But none of that answered Helena's question. He thought a moment longer before answering. "I found a job in Government, and have worked there ever since."

"Why do I get the feeling that is the understatement of the year?"

Mycroft smiled. "And yourself?"

"Oh," she said, looking away at the band setting up across the tent. "I traveled. Spent time in America, New Zealand, Thailand. Lots of little trips in Asia. Recently I've been working my way East. Siberia, Russia, Lithuania."

There was more, he could tell. In fact, he could tell that she was envious of Imogen, who was laughing gaily with her mouth wide open, close to spilling champagne on her severely strapless, lacy white dress with the tulle coming out of the bottom. Her new husband was in the gaggle of grooms on the opposite end of the dance floor, a man far steadier than Mycroft would have ever guess she would married. Then again, she wasn't a wild child any more. None of them were.

Mycroft looked at his cake, pushed it towards Helena. "Would you care for cake?"

She smiled, shook her head, glanced up at him through her eyelashes. "Thank you, no. I've already eaten two slices and if I do another, I'll fall asleep right here at this table."

He didn't think she was joking. Though they had never been anything more than acquaintances, he couldn't think of a single instance where she had absented herself from anything related to food. Her honesty was refreshing. "So what will you do after you leave here, go home to your husband and children?"

At that, she lifted one eyebrow. "Mycroft. If this is how you ask a woman if she's married, you'll have to do a great deal better."

"Oh," he said, startled that that was what she thought he was doing. Was he doing that? "Certainly not my intention to ruffle any feathers."

"You haven't," she answered, wide eyed. "Oh my god, you are terrible at this!"

Flustered, he shifted in his chair. 

"Oh my god," she repeated. " _You_ are adorable. And since you've asked, the answers are no and no. No husband, no kids. Not yet, anyway. "

She looked at him again and then away, her shoulders shaking as she suppressed laughter. Mycroft wasn't sure if he should be offended or not, then decided against it. He would never have to see her or Imogen again, not if he could help it. 

Helena stood up, held out her hand. "Come on then, you and me,"

"Pardon?"

"Dancing, Mycroft. I want to dance with someone who isn't going to step on my feet, and if I'm right, and I'm pretty sure I am, you'll not only know how to lead, you'll keep well off my toes."

"Never let it be said I have shirked my duty," he said gravely as he rose, offering his arm. "Besides, it will do my mother a world of good to know her lessons didn't go to waste."

Her peal of laughter was worth the mention of his mother.

 

_TWENTY-FOUR II:_

Mummy was suitably surprised by her birthday gifts. She gave him one of her quick hugs with more squeeze than twas normal, which meant she was worried about Sherlock. He didn't see why, there was no appreciable change in Sherlock that he could determine. 

He was as insufferable as always.

Nonetheless, Mycroft paid attention. Sherlock was either chatty or he was sullen, with little variation. He was as he had been as a child - oh, he had tempered himself, to be sure, or perhaps had had the tempering thrust upon him by Eton. He was apt to wandering the house at night, completely asleep, which was worrisome as Redbeard was no longer there to keep an eye on him. He did everything with abandon, as usual, whether it was recording the bees in the garden or running experiments of the kind Mycroft had no desire to be involved in, in the carriage barn. He read his books and kept his notes and annoyed Mycroft endlessly with questions about everything and nothing and was, in essence, the same person he had been before Mycroft had left for University.

And yet. 

They were in the kitchen, he, Mummy, and Sherlock. Mycroft was reading from a selection of newspapers including the New York Times, the Times of India, Le Monde, while Mummy shelled peas. Sherlock swanned in wearing navy trousers and a short sleeved white button down with pintucks on the front. Mycroft peered at him over the top of The Sun. There was something...he frowned, shook the paper free of wrinkles. He couldn't quite work out what it was he was feeling. Curious, yes, because Sherlock was endlessly intriguing. The five o'clock shadow of the previous day had come in even more, and when he leaned against the counter, stirring sugar into his coffee, Mycroft was stunned to see how much Sherlock's eyes were emphasized by the beard.

He hastily went back to his paper, blinking furiously and wondering why his heart was beating so quickly. 

"So what have you boys planned for me today?" asked Mummy, pointedly not looking at either one of them.

"Telling you would spoil the surprise," said Mycroft, meeting Sherlock's equally horrified gaze. Because truthfully, he had assumed Mummy had her own plans; she usually did on her birthday. It appeared that times had changed.

"Ah, a surprise! How lovely. I thought that might be the case, seeing as it's been so long since you were both home at the same time."

Mycroft winced. What was nearby that they could do? Nothing, really. In addition to all of her hobbies, she had of late taken up knitting (a most unlikely hobby, as her domestic arts were….problematic), and ball room dancing with Lord Kinsey at the Grange Hotel two Saturdays a month. There was nothing for it; he was going to have to fly her someplace. She still enjoyed walking - and there it was. They would go to the coast and have a picnic lunch.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, laying down his paper and standing up. "I've got to make a call."

 

_TWENTY-NINE:_

"Come with me," Mycroft suggested, sealing the letter. He put it in the tray with the rest of his outgoing personal mail. "Miriam will be happy to see you in something other than filthy jeans and worn tee-shirts, I'm sure."

"I don't want to."

Mycroft swiveled in his chair. Sherlock was lying sideways on the sofa, feet overhanging the arm. He was of course in pyjamas and a bathrobe with innumerable stains of questionable origin. Given his proclivities, Mycroft assumed they were of…bodily fluids.

"Oh, stop acting the prude," Sherlock bit off. He steepled his fingers under his chin. "We both know _you've_ plenty of experience in matters sexual."

"Yes, and for all that experience, I still don't want to see whatever it is you get up to in the hellhole you call a flat."

"So get me a better one," snapped Sherlock, swinging his foot around and jumping to his feet to stare out the window. "I can't take the boredom of it all, Mycroft."

"Then come with me. Make Auntie Miriam happy -"

"Auntie - " Sherlock scoffed, facing Mycroft again. "She's only marrying for the money."

Privately, Mycroft felt much the same way. Nonetheless, making sure Sherlock didn't embarrass them all with some deduction in the middle of the ceremony was his job. Mummy had said so. Ignoring Sherlock's comment, he said, "A complete wardrobe, for day and night.

"And?"

Closing his eyes for a long blink, Mycroft added, "And an account for wear and replacement. Think of this as your reward for completing rehab."

"I'll get dressed, shall I?"

This was going to cost him a fortune, he just knew it. It would be, however, a genuine pleasure to see his little brother in decent clothing for once. In fact - there would be the reception and dinner afterward, and the breakfast champagne toast in the morning. This could work to his advantage.

Two hours later and Mycroft found himself crossing his legs and wishing he had never thought of paying for Sherlock's wardrobe. He drained his cup of tea only to pour another, stirring in a single lump of sugar. With a sense of defeat at his own inability to stop his thoughts, he focused on food instead, biting into a lemon glazed Madelaine from the tray. 

There was a chance that if he didn't keep his mouth occupied, he might nibble on Sherlock's ear instead.

That…would not go well. Sherlock stepped from behind the curtain draped all the way to the floor, tucking his shirt into his undone trousers as he looked at himself in the mirror.. The shirt was sable and highlighted the long column of Sherlock's pale throat. Who turned to look at himself in profile, giving Mycroft the full view of his clavicles, his flat stomach, and no hint of the pants he was wearing.

"Well? What do you think?"

Mycroft sniffed. "The shirt works well, perhaps not with the ebony trousers."

Sherlock shot him a look. "You weren't always so choosy."

He shrugged. "Clothes make the man," he quoted. "Naked people have little or no interest on society."

"Mark Twain," said Sherlock, staring at his reflection. "This is suitable."

"Try the emerald and the teal."

"You do know I'm not a mallard."

"Nonetheless."

Sherlock huffed, but Mycroft could tell that he was secretly pleased. Honestly, did Sherlock think he wouldn't know? Did he not even remember how he used to dress as a child? Mycroft was sure there were pictures somewhere in the house. He would have to find - "Oh," he breathed.

The emerald silk could have been too much, yet Sherlock looked positively edible. And, given his wink to Mycroft, he knew it.

The bastard.

Mycroft set his tea in his lap and hoped for no untoward jostling.

"You'll burn yourself if you keep that up."

For a moment he wasn't sure to what Sherlock was referring, and finally decided that maybe he didn't want to know. 

Another hour passed in which Sherlock chose several suits in wool and one in linen, shirts in smudge and storm, Northern sea and cloud, a wine of which Homer would have been proud. Mycroft indulged him several pairs of leather gloves, scarves in indigo and olive and scarlet. From there, shoes. By the time everything was bought and paid for, night had fallen and London had come alive.

"Dinner?" offered Mycroft, getting in the car. "I have reservations at Hunan."

"Mm, Pimlico. I don't fancy having my menu chosen for me," Sherlock said, following him quickly. "I have a better idea. Let's go back to yours. Helena and the children are away."

Mycroft blinked. "Yes. And that is good because…?"

Sherlock looked at him, his gaze steady. "We'll have the house to ourselves."

An unwelcome surge of lust had Mycroft crossing his legs again, even though he knew Sherlock didn't mean anything by what he said. "I repeat, and that is good, because?"

Sherlock turned towards the window. "You've been wanting to peel me out of those clothes all day."

The shock of what he felt being acknowledged by Sherlock was overwhelming. For a moment he had to close his eyes and grip the edge of the seat. His shame was out in the open. Well, the only thing to do was face it. "Sherlock, I must apologize. It was never my intention to feel this way, certainly not about you. I have never made advances, and I would hope you certainly never mention this to Helena."

There was no response beyond the slightest upturn of the corner of Sherlock's mouth. This was Sherlock; wild, unpredictable Sherlock who was just out of rehab.

By the coolness on his brow, Mycroft knew perspiration was gathering along his hairline. His shirt was beginning to stick to the small of his back and if he could take off his jacket, he would. This was the most important moment of his entire life. "What are you going to do?"

"Do?" Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "What, you think I'm going to blackmail you?"

"Of course not," Mycroft said confidently, wanting desperately to believe his own lie. "I would like to know what you intend. I don't want Mummy or Father to know."

"I want to touch you. There are aspects to my work that I do not completely understand, and you'll be discrete."

"I…see," Mycroft was sure he had fallen into an alternate universe. "Am I to presume there will be no mention of this little deal outside of this car?"

Sherlock snorted. "Believe me, I no more wish anyone to know of this than you do."

All right. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Mycroft found himself thinking of the future and what might happen. This would be an opportunity to…satisfy…his unnatural lust for his brother. He could admit to himself, indeed, he had admitted to himself, once the idea occurred to him, that it was Sherlock who was his obsession. All the men and women he had slept with were nothing in comparison to him. Helena was a different matter entirely. He was fairly sure that what he felt for her was love. Certainly she was the only woman to whom he had ever truly desired - that would have to be enough. She had given him Sofia, William, and Charlotte, making Mummy and Father extremely happy. Yes, this could be the best of all worlds.

_And_ there was lemon ricotta cheesecake for himself and Sherlock for afters.

 

~*~  
Fin  
~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft's room:
> 
> His wallpaper:
> 
> [Orchid](http://www.cole-and-son.com/en/collection-new-contemporary/wallpaper-66/4024/)
> 
> His writing desk:
> 
> [Mahogany](http://english-classics.net/furniture/antique-style-mahogany-writing-desk/)
> 
> On the walls, his sketches of the following:
> 
> [The Capitoline Temple of Volubilis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Volubilis)  
> [The Theatre of Sabratha](http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/184)  
> [The Forum at Jerash](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerash) (looks more like a Circus to me)  
> [Heliopolis, aka Baalbek](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baalbek)
> 
> I think he's got good taste, don't you?
> 
> And, finally, when Mycroft first sees [Sherlock](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/507358714245903135/).
> 
> You're welcome.


End file.
